Muddled ramblings from the mind of the spastic, sarcastic, and utterly fantastic.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Currently Skipping Work To Write

She covered the room in an ocean of blues. Knobby-soft under her bare feet, the cerulean hand-made rug she found at a little hippie shop run by a former Grateful Dead groupie who went by the name Topaz. Turquoise scarves-turned-curtains, studded with tiny plastic beads that clung to them like perfect water droplets and found at the flea market by the legendary Haight. Strands of glass the colour of a perfect Summer sky brushed her shoulders every time she came through her little white door (now painted with various elephants, unicorns, ducks, all of them blue) to her new home. But it didn't feel new. It felt like she had belonged there all her life.